


since feeling is first

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fawnlock, M/M, heart feelings, language barriers and learning to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock often do not speak the same language but always understand each other when sentiment is in question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	since feeling is first

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blessedjessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedjessed/gifts).



> Written for a fic swap, this piece was inspired by the prompt: "It was no fairytale. Or at least, it had not begun like one."
> 
> Title from e.e. cummings.

It was no fairy tale. Or at least, it had not begun like one. John thought back to their first meeting. Himself bundled up to go collect the mail. Bootlaces clicking against the wood flooring in the kitchen. Sherlock wide-eyed and stock-still on the porch. Caught between intrigue and fright. If it were a fairy tale Sherlock might have spoken first. Might have asked why John was staying in the cabin in the beech wood. Instead, he postured (threatened) and fled.

John watched as Sherlock kicked his feet idly, stomach down on the woven rug in the sitting room. Tugged on a loose strand of cloth. Hurriedly smoothed it back down. Tail waving in contentment, Sherlock stretched for the remote control in vain attempts to search for something on television. When nothing more than local weather, a grainy comedy film, and harsh static were available (Sherlock shouted at the feedback, ears flattened back against his head) John slouched down in his chair.

Bare toes pressed against Sherlock’s rump, John tested the faun’s patience. In a fairy tale, John would settle the arch of his foot against the curve of Sherlock’s hip — freckled from the sun — and receive playful retaliation. John learned in the past to anticipate more than docile complacency. Once his foot was aligned with the swell of muscle, John waited. Waited. He knew Sherlock would either ignore him or become vocal. Waited. Flexed his toes against the downy fur. Sherlock grunted. Rolled onto his side to expose his stomach. Drew his hands up to his chest and scratched at his (sparse) chest hair.

“Oh, you’re no fun,” he laughed. Moved to join Sherlock on the floor. Took back the remote, lowered the volume, and found a cooking program.

“No fun pestering me. Don’t. Don’t!” Sherlock slapped at John’s hand rubbing circles on his freckled stomach. Curled in on himself to shove at John with his antlers.

“Sher— Right, I’ll stop!”

In a fairy tale, John would be able to pronounce Sherlock’s name in fae language. A full sound with deep vowels (soft in the mouth) and a pronounced velar stop. Inflected rising at the end — as if his name were a question. For John’s benefit, Sherlock accepted defeat in his attempts to teach John and allowed him to stretch the word to fit his English speech. Sherlock sang to him in fae tongue when John worked in the garden, prepared dinner (spoiling the faun with fresh berries and mushroom caps), settled down for sleep at night. John taught him English when Sherlock asked what something meant, who someone was, why something happened, where their wood was in distance from his home.

Far away, a faint memory, the distant wood Sherlock described to John was no more. Burned and abandoned, the trembling trees and still pools remained vibrant in the childlike memory of the faun. Graphic in nightmares where he was separated from his mother and father. Alone with his brother. Fairy tales would have full-blossoming flowers and shrubberies, shady walnut and sycamore, fragrant spruce and cedar to welcome Sherlock home. In their (it had become _theirs_ as much as the cabin had become _theirs_ ) beech forest, Sherlock lazed in patches of sunlight in the sitting room, set fire to moss in the bathtub, crept into the garden at night to root up carrots, and still managed to steal away John’s heart.

“Hurt?” Sherlock nosed at John’s palm, breath warm against the skin.

“No, you didn’t hurt me,” he said, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s curly hair.

“Good. Good,” Sherlock sighed. Rolled back to rest his head in John’s lap. “Stomach tick-ish.”

“Ticklish?”

“Yes, that. Don’t.”

John uncurled his leg (slowly falling asleep under the weight of Sherlock’s shoulders) and propped himself up on his elbows. Felt the familiar warmth in his chest when Sherlock struck him as particularly charming, enigmatic, petulant.

“Why quiet?” Sherlock sat ramrod straight. Swung his leg over John’s thighs, broad hands on John’s shoulders. His ears flicked about.

“Just sitting here with you. Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” he answered quickly, pressing his lips to John’s forehead.

“No?” John tilted to kiss Sherlock’s chin. His neck. His throat (circled with green ink, faint under the dust of summer soil).

“Good.” Sherlock beamed at him. Broad mouth pliant and cheeks rosy.

John leaned forward to catch that full bottom lip in a kiss. Sighed when Sherlock settled into his lap, knees folding to encircle John with his legs. Arms wrapping around his chest. Insistent — persistent — mouth demanding more kisses. Faun tongue warm against the corner of his mouth. Faun hands roaming across his back.

“John. _John_.”

Tipping his forehead to rest in the cradle of Sherlock’s shoulder, he lipped at the marks and freckles.

“Making face again.”

“What face?”

“This one.” Sherlock sat back, thumbs rasping against stubble on John’s cheeks. Fingers curling behind his jaw. “Mouth happy. Eyebrows up. Wrinkle here and here. Nose wrinkled. If faun would have ears up. Tail waving.”

“Like you right now?”

Sherlock blushed and made a squealing noise in his throat. “Yes. _Lufu_.”

“What does that mean?” John laughed, face warm in Sherlock’s hands.

“L— How you say feeling in heart? Happy to see and sad to see go? Hurts when have disagree. Still have heart feeling even though disagree. Belly feels full of bubbles. Want to hold and be with. Want to make kisses.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s . . . love, Sherlock.”

“That!” the faun shouted, knocking them both to the floor. Their mouths resealed, Sherlock smiling and humming into John’s lips.

Television still on, dishes unwashed, garden untended, they kept their arms tight around each other as the last rosy minutes of evening slipped into night. It was no fairy tale, John considered, but it was theirs and the sentiment was shared in their heart feelings.

**Author's Note:**

> " _Lufu_ " is Old English for "love."


End file.
